Restoring Order

May 29 2011

The garage needed cleaning.

A good chore, for spring,

when daylight is inexhaustible

and it’s hard to keep putting off.

When restoring order

in a corner of the world

seems possible.

When the exuberant growth

of wild things

threatens to overtake us,

starting with the garden

then moving on,

invading the house

the idle body.

I moved the woodpile.

Which is like digging holes

just to fill them back in;

yet found myself

surprisingly gratified.

Because of the mindlessness

of the task.

Because of the heft of wood,

compact wedges that so nicely stack

locking solidly in place.

Work that lasts.

Work you can measure, that decisively ends.

Stepping back

hands on hips

I admire a job well done,

placing soft leather gloves

on top of the pile

with a ceremonial flourish.

I feel smug

at foresight
abundance,

plenty of fuel

for warm winter nights, a cozy glow.

At having regained some sense of control,

however delusional.

Manual labour

  —  slow methodical work,

the well-earned ache, afterward,

the hard and calloused hands  —

is a welcome respite

from complexity

uncertainty

powerlessness.

Moving wood

like moving words around the page

changes little

in the bigger picture,

the grim unpredictable world.

And in a few brief seasons

the pile of birch will be gone.

My words may not last

much longer.